Have I become so bitter
So tainted in thought
That I lose appreciation for beauty?
For where I have begun to see weeds
Others see
Merely a beautiful flower
Perhaps it is simply a reflection
Of our inner selves
The child of beauty saw a flower
The child of darkness
Saw a ****
But perhaps that is merely
An overexageration
For I still see beauty
Even where others would say none lies
I hesr beauty in sounds considered mundane
And relish every contact
With things and people
That I consider lovely
Perhaps it is
That pain does not breed
Bitterness
And cycnicism
Always
But sometimes
As an indulgent god
Might grant a weary motal a boon
The pain instead breeds
A greater appreciation
For all things
An eye which sees beauty
Even in what others
Consider weeds
An ear which hears beauty
Even in sounds
Considered mundane
And ugly
Fingers which feel warmth
And beauty
In all human contact
And in all the things
Which over a lifetime
They may have the joy
Of coming into contact
With

In a night of soft and muted starlight

I saw myself

Erected upon a battlefield

Clad in shining armor

Wielding in my hand a sword

Wreathed in gilded fire

 

In a night of pouding thunder and

Lightning white hot

I saw myself

Cowering in terror

Before a beast dreamt up

From Lovecraft's nightmares

And woke sheened in sweat

 

In a night of cool breezes

And the warm song of the cicadas

I saw myself

Married before my friends and compatriots

Saw happiness across my face

And woke

Not terrified

Not over joyed

But sad

Because I had not the contentment

Of my other self

 

In a night dark and thick as pitch

I saw myself

In snippets

Saw what was to be

Mundane happenings

And simple laughs

I was, but for a night

A seer

 

In a night blanketed in fog

Thick as the rolling clouds of smoke

Wafting from a warrior's pyre

I saw myself

In a mirror

No dreams

No sleep

Merely myself and my thoughts

And I was more scared than suring any nightmare

I felt sure at first glace

That I had seen a work of art

A canvas masterfully touched by gentle brushstrokes

Till that face, glowing like that of an angel

Stared back at me

Through frame of oak and glass

 

Of flaxen hair

And sea green eyes

Was the beauty that fell 'fore my gaze

Skin like that of a china doll

And a smile

That to me seemed a golden ray of light

Warmer even than the

Fickle heat of the sun

 

I longed for that beauty

Though I knew I should not

And tortured my fair caged heart

Till cries like that of a wounded animal

Could be heard in my chest

Through every hour

Of every day

 

How is it

That a work of art

Could be of flesh and blood

Rather than of pigment and brush?

What great magic it must have been

To make this perfection a reality

 

I think that were my desire still

A painting

Of oil

Of canvas

Of beauty locked behind a polished wood frame

That I might overcome

Nature itself

To put myself in that canvas

So that I might share

The colors of

Flaxeb gold

Sea green

And porcelain white

To think of death
Whether of a paradise
Or of a hellscape
Or of  bleak nothing
Is to have a mere elementary debate with oneself

To experience death
Is a multitude of expereinces
Once, we will experience our own
Many times we will expereince
The deaths of others
Of those we love
Of those we hate
Of those we barely know
And face our own mortality

To watch death
Is to watch as a body
Withers
Shrinks
Sickens
And to know that ultimately
There is no stopping it

To welcome death
Is not to give up
But is to have the maturity to know
That eventually we all must face it
And to make peace
With our limitedness
And to continue

To know death
Is to know life
Is to know sorrow
And suffering
And joy
And jubilation
It is to know our greatest openent
And our most beloved friend
It is to know fear
And confidence
And doubt
It is to look upon life and know it will end
And be okay

When I was young, they would look at me and say
"Who ever heard of a kid
With his feet in the clouds
And his head so far away you don't even know
Where to look for it?"
They saw that crazy energy in my heart
And those weird ideas in my head
And they looked at me and said
"A kid like that
Could never succeed in school
Because he's too wrapped up in imagination."
So I decided they were wrong
And I poured my soul into it
And when I had something I felt I could be proud of
I brought it forward
And they looked at that perfect test and said
"Whoever heard of a kid
So proud of some story he wrote
For some silly exam
That he wanted to show off?"
They saw my happiness
Over this thing they thiught so trivial
And they laughed
And they said
"A kid like that is proud of all
The wrong things in life
He still doesn't have his feet on the ground
He's still too crazy."
And so I, determined to be what I thought I should
Looked at myself
And took stock of the things they
Thought were silly
And I put them in a little wooden box
With a little iron lock
And little black letters on top that read
"A kid"
And I marched off to be something that
They had led me to believe
Was better.
When I got there and started to toil
To pour ny heart and soul
And all that I could into this work
They looked and me and said
"How can some teenager
Ever work this hard
Without stopping
To be a kid?"
And they sneered at me and pointed and said
"There must be something wrong with him."
So I took a few things
Out of my box
Being sure to lock it again
And when they saw these new old things
And watched me using them
They scowled, and shot me distateful
Looks
And they turned to each other and said
"He just wants to have fun
How is that going to help him?
He ought to act more
Mature."
And I, now at my wits end
Broke my back and sacrificed sleep
For coffee and textbooks
I, now at my wits end
Sacrificed long summer nights for hours
Spent staring at a screen
Straining my lifeless eyes
To work when I should have been playing.
And I returned to them
With all my achievments in hand
All my worldly work
And they looked down at the pile
And they said
"Shouldn't you try to have fun?"
And finally I lifted my headAnd I looked at them and at their
Bitter looks
Hollow eyes
Their tight mouths
And unhappy, looming brows
And I asked myself
"Why do I want to be
What they say I should?
Where did it ever get them?"
And I dropped my things and ran home
And prayed I was not too late
I pulled out my little wooden box
With the little iron lock
And the black letters that read
"A kid"
And I picked up the things inside
And gathered them out away from the box
And back into me
When I was done there was a little part of my soul
Where there had once been a hole
And in little black letters across the front
It read
"A kid"
And I smiled once more
Now wholy sure
That I could always, in some way be
A kid

I hear people say that
"Oh if these walls could talk, the stories they would tell"
With wry smiles
And wistful looks in their eyes
But my stories could never be told
By walls that see only in the light of day

My stories reside in the dark
With whispers that fly soft
On wings of thick velvet
From impassioned lips to ready ears
And with thoughts that are never fit
To be known by day

My sorrows drip like pitch from a bedframe
That rattles not with love
But with sobs so herculean that
They could rack the ribs of mountains
And drown the mighty
Rivers
In a deluge of raw emotion

My hysteria bubbles like a hidden pool
Deeper than can be seen
From a position on the surface
Nights when I tire
It explodes upward
With enough force to put fear in the hearts of those around me

My joy undulates like a thick wave
Heavy as the waves of land stirred up in
An earthquake
And can brush aside all in its path
As if the mighty hand of a vengeful god
Were seeking to punish all else
That stood in the way

My stories were born in the late of night
Among nights of tar
Crawling blind and untold
Because the sun would be too powerful
And might simply wash them away
Like flood waters wash away
Unsuspecting nations
And crush them 'neath the boot of values and respectability